


When I'm Approached in a Dark Alley

by LaFlashdrive



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3199418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFlashdrive/pseuds/LaFlashdrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She kisses your shoulder blades and there is no hint of teeth. She kisses your mouth and there is no hint of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Approached in a Dark Alley

You still aren’t able to resist them. You never have been. 

You know it’s riskier now that you’re eighteen and more than passed marrying age, the same as the rest of your friends. This girl is betrothed already, you think, the one whose skirt is lifted above her knees in front of you in one of your mansion’s storage closets. You’re supposed to be at your father’s ball; she’s supposed to be dancing with her fiancé. It’s all very important.

But what kind of friend would you be if you didn’t give her this bachelorette party? 

She is slick around your fingers, wet like so many girls have been for you before her, and you think if it weren’t so dark in here and it weren’t so cramped you’d get down on your knees to taste her, kneel for her in the way your father has taught you never to do for anyone. You are royalty, but right now this girl is your queen. 

Your hands lose themselves in her folds and her dress is so low cut you lose your face in her breasts. You thank this year’s fashion, of girls in general and how beautiful they are, how striking they look one hundred percent of the time. They are goddesses your church tells you not to venerate, but you have knelt before their shrines with your tongue appeasing their wills one too many times to pretend you do not worship them. It is amazing to you to think that you might look half as pretty to these girls as they do to you. 

You are good with your hands. Whether your mother is complementing your sewing, your pianoforte teacher is praising your playing, or your closet mate is lavishing you with the sounds of satisfaction in your ear, you are good with your hands. You prove yourself worthy of the praise. You fuck this girl until her cunt feels tighter than the strained lungs in your chest and she cries out in ecstasy in thanks.

She moans so loud it’s no wonder you get caught.

There’s a door opening and a sudden bright light from the chandelier of the ball room and then there’s whispers and shouts and general chaos you do not understand in your stupor, still do not remember centuries later.

There are people and strangers and acquaintances you recognize and none of them look too happy to see you. There is a crowd all around you, all around her, and your instincts alert you desperately to escape it all. You look one way and see your mother and father, hands clasped over their mouths in shock and you know immediately that that route is not the safest. You move in the opposite direction just on principle alone before you even know it and you follow your feet without protest. You pass strangers and strangers and then someone you think might be the girl’s fiancé, but you don’t dote on it. 

Until he sticks a dagger in your gut.

//

You’re lucky Mother was there to save you that night. You don’t know where you’d be without her. She licked your wounds and chewed your throat and kissed your cheek the same way she kisses it now beside you in the tub.

You find it comical, really, that she entertained your request.

“Is Elizabeth a vampire?” you’d asked.

“Elizabeth who?”

“The one from Hungary. The one who killed all those girls. Bathory, I think. The teachers used to talk about her. They said she was dead, but is she?”  
Mother didn’t know, but she’d asked you why you’d thought that, asked you if you were into the same things she was; the murder, the soaking in blood, the watching girls’ pretty young youth leave their bodies to feed your immortality.

You were.

She was too.

Mother killed so many girls for you that night to fill that tub, wasted so many potential sacrifices, cycles of them, just to please you. You were more important than some Sumerian demi-god back then. Mother was glad to submit to you. You took that for granted. 

All of the girls she killed were pretty. 

(They were the kind of girls you would have liked to fuck. She did let you fuck a couple of them.)

It was only fair you shared the bath with her.

Blood covered you up to your neck and you’d thought you’d submerge yourself entirely if Mother wasn’t nipping at you where you were exposed, those gentle cheek kisses turning into a much rougher gnaw at the hollow of your throat. Her hair draped itself across your shoulders. Her breasts tickled the sides of your scarred rib cage. You hummed in delight as you let yourself soak in the slurry, closer to those girls in death than you’d ever be to them in their lives, closer to Mother than you could have been with your clothes on. Her fingers emerged from the liquid like Nessie on a cold Scottish night. They dripped with mystery and blood and when she brought them to your lips, you suckled on them like the infant you were.

She stopped feeding you after a while, left you to lick your lips and close your eyes and imagine all the blood you’d already drank that night long before your bath water was your dessert. Her hands traveled lower, meet her own lips where they met the nape of your neck and touched your breasts next to her own where they swung above your heart. Visions of dancing and dresses and nightmares becoming reality graced the dark of your eyelids.

“Do you know what pleasure is, Mircalla?” Mother whispered to you so softly, kissed you so gently below the ear that you almost didn’t recognize her voice. It reminded you of your birth mother’s. 

You did know pleasure. You thought of the liquid sloshing around you, of mirrored halls, of hunts, and feasts. You thought of Mother beside you with her hand on the other side of your throat, tilting your head back to bury her face in your neck. Your mind felt so heavy, so light, that it fell back without you needing to think about it. You nodded your head. You did know pleasure. “This.”

Mother smiled against your skin. “Did those girls ever touch you, Mircalla?” she reminisced, pulling her lips away from your skin for far too long for your liking in order to speak. “The ones you fucked in the privacy of your old bedroom, the ones you fingered in coat closets.” Her breasts brushed your scar. “Did they touch you, or did they just make you touch them?”

When she nibbled your ear, you whimpered.

“Just me,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I was the only one touching.”

Mother hummed contently against your skin, her moan vibrating your throat as it buzzed in her own. “I thought so,” she confided. “Let me show you what real pleasure is like.”

You no longer knew how to hold yourself up and suddenly there was blood in your mouth. Your body dipped with Maman’s hands, and as her fingers caressed your thighs your lower back sunk against the tub. Your desire pulled you down until the ends of your hair and the bottom lip of your mouth were submerged. Mother didn’t mind. She slanted your head further, rested your skull against the side of the tub as she hungrily licked the blood staining your neck pink.

Her tongue was heavenly, so warm, rough, caring. You couldn’t help but imagine it in other places. Her fingers between your thighs were like nothing you’d ever experienced before, and she pounded two digits inside of you, replaced the blood seeping its way into your body with her flesh, and when you clenched around her solid form, you couldn’t imagine being empty there again.

You were angry that those girls had denied you this before. You had been brave enough to touch them; why had they never been brave enough to touch you? Maybe that’s why mother picked you over anyone else. You were brave.

Your mother was the first woman to ever make you cum, and when she sunk her fangs into your neck immediately after your orgasm, she became the second woman to make you cum, too.

(It took you so long to be able to cum without teeth at your throat.

Now you don’t think you could if you tried.

It’s one of the reasons you’re scared to turn Laura.)

(She can’t cum without teeth at her throat either.)

///

When Mother buried you in that coffin you were scared and you were angry and you were wet.

It took you weeks to stop crying. I took you even longer to stop touching yourself. Drowning in that blood was like drowning in that bath tub. For the second time, Maman had killed so many girls just to fill that container for you.

(Only this time she wasn’t there to tell you she loved you when you screamed her name. This time you screamed Ell’s. She didn’t tell you she loved you either.)

It was never fun, never pleasurable. The girl you loved was dead and she would never be able to touch you again the way you were touching yourself. You didn’t think Maman ever would again either. _Good_ , you thought to yourself. You didn’t want her to.  
The coffin just got worse.

You stopped being able to cum. You stopped being able to do anything but drown. You think, even, that you might have died, that your death in that box may have even been more real than it was in that hole where Kirsch found you.

////

You take showers now because you can’t bathe anymore, not in blood, not in water, not in anything. It all reminds you too much of Maman.

(You can’t tell if you hate her or if you miss her. You can’t tell if maybe part of you liked your punishments, would endure them all over again in a heartbeat to be by her side once more. You think you would. If only because it’d put you next to Laura again in the end. That was what really mattered when it all came down to it, that Laura loved you and she was here. She was part of your story.)

Showers are reassuring. Standing is so different from the way you rested in that tub. Being able to step away from the stream of water at any time is so different than how things were in that coffin. Laura’s breasts behind you resting gently against your bruises are so different from how Maman pressed her chest so firmly against your scars.

She kisses your shoulder blades and there is no hint of teeth. She kisses your mouth and there is no hint of blood. 

Her hair is straight, even straighter in the water, and she wears buttons ups and pajama bottoms and dances like her dad taught her how to, and she is still so, so beautiful despite it all. When you look at her, you think you might still be Mircalla, the version of Mircalla that existed before Mother got her hands on her. You feel like you are eighteen and lined up for marriage, and you hope it is her to that you are betrothed.


End file.
